


When The Stars Fall Down

by CN7



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drama, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Grounder Culture, No wasted world building, Post-Apocalypse, Romance, THEGUESTSTAR, Were gonna explore the fuck out of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 08:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7501221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CN7/pseuds/CN7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stars appeared only at night, and sometimes they were so far away, too inconceivable in their vastness, Lexa just pretended they were painted across backdrop of her world. But stars crash to the Earth a hundred strong and paint worlds of their own. For some that starts with blood.</p><p> </p><p>Or, I hijack the plot and the wasteful character death and potential doesn't exist??? So we can all go play grounder because they're really cool. Skaikru's still kind of a dick tho, and Titus' aim is more accurate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Stars Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> It gets really angsty.

Lexa feels delightfully full, brimming with a warmth fluttering inside her chest, relaxed beneath the furs and sunlight streaming into her bedroom from behind the curtains. A steady stream of muffled voices float up from the streets of Polis below, filled with bartering of merchants and laughter of children. They bounce away, made distant by chattering birds and the soft clang of windchimes on the balcony. Tension flushed from every aching muscle along her spine, Lexa sighs into her pillow, into the butterfly kisses peppered against her shoulder blades and the nape of her neck.

 

She lifts the hand grasped snuggly within her own and brings it up to her face to examine. She traces the cuts and callouses of the palm, carves to memory the dips and curves of the bone structure beneath smooth flesh on the opposite side, and runs a thumb across each finger. They are shorter than her own, smaller, not quite as slender.

 

These are the hands which brought Lexa resolution in a final token of a fallen mentor. These are the hands which tamed and rallied one hundred insolent children, and fought for their freedom and safety time and time again. These are the hands that turned a monster back into a man.

 

These are the hands of the Mountain Slayer, destroyer and bringer of every mother's nightmare, of Wanheda herself, and these hands command death itself.

 

They are beautiful and strong and delicate all the same, and when Lexa kisses the tip of each finger, she feels the lips at her back stretch into a smile.

 

"You're making it really hard to kiss you properly," the smile husks thickly into Lexa's ear. A tinge of a laugh coats the breath that makes her shiver with something content and surprised and a bit more feral that has been forced asleep for quite some time.

 

Never releasing the hand she has a hold of, Lexa rolls sideways, almost onto her back so that she can stare up at the voice she knows will continue to haunt her thoughts for the rest of her life--however long that may be. At once the air traitorously slips between Lexa's lips, and the girl altogether forgets how to hunt and trap for her lungs. 

 

A mane of golden locks cascade all around, so softly haloed like the beauties depicted upon the canvases laid to rest in the safekeeping of the scattered libraries. Blue eyes sparkle back at her, reflecting sunlight like the ocean itself. Suddenly Lexa wonders if her lover has ever seen the shores of the sea, and vows to amend such a deprivation if one does exist.

 

A cursed reflex instilled into Lexa by instinct, forces her to suck in a sharp breath, filling the airway her mind has so easily condemned in favor of etching this memory into every fiber of her being.

 

Her lover laughs a soft airy sound, rumbled and throaty. Not unlike the noise she's grown so accustomed to, but Lexa has quickly learned in the last hour each sound is different. A little while ago the chuckle had been coarser, a trace of a jibe and teasing laced into a smirk that had made Lexa want the floor to swallow her whole. Before that it had been the nervous effect of embarrassment, and color had flooded her lover's cheeks with shy eyes Lexa never thought she would see. But this last is daintier, matched by the fondest of smiles, and makes hearts flutter.

 

Lexa raises her hand to trace a soft, rounded cheekbone, and the blonde instantly leans into her touch. She matches the expression and says, "I apologize for the inconvenience, Clarke, but I quite like giving you a reason to smile."

 

An ache in her gut demands Lexa tell Clarke that she plans to always give her a reason. She desires the revelation more than anything in this very moment, lost in the warmth of the furs and comforting embrace of the person she adores most.

 

But Lexa is also Heda, and Heda can promise no such thing. 

 

At least not right now. Not yet.

 

Clarke opens her mouth, a thought evident on the tip of her tongue, but whatever she guards closely is woefully reined in and she bites her secretive lips closed. Sadness does nothing to tamper the dismissal however, and instead the affection only grows in her eyes and the adorable tilt of her head. 

 

The unspoken is enough. The silence is enough for Lexa to lean forward off the mattress, to push the hair back behind Clarke's ear, and press her reverant lips to the center of her forehead. Enough to release every ounce of herself to this girl who believes she owns nothing of herself. It is enough for Clarke to sigh peacefully and squeeze the hand in her grasp with iron force. 

 

And Lexa prays to the Spirit it is enough for Clarke to understand she is not alone.

 

Without further ado, Clarke disentangles herself from Lexa, and slips out from beneath the furs to collect her misplaced clothes. Her lover's eyes imprint to memory her every move, from the bend in her spine to the curve of her waist. 

 

And Heda knows she cannot allow the luxury of wanting more, of wanting this again and again for the rest of her life. 

 

But Lexa can allow the luxury of being here right now, and so she faithfully follows Clarke. 

 

They are half-dressed by their own doing when the blonde shimmies back into her fitted trousers, and makes a confused sweep across the floor for her still missing shirt. Her enchanting blue eyes widen by a fraction when she sees the garment hanging from Lexa's grasp, and her mouth opens in a hushed, "Oh."

 

Clarke does not make any movement to snatch it away. Maybe because if Lexa lets go, this will all be gone, and suddenly Clarke will be whisked away by duty into the fray of a pending civil war. So with a great deal of willpower, Lexa gently guides the blouse over Clarke's head and only lets go after consciously fighting off her hand's valiant efforts at disobedience. Of holding on forever.

 

This time a hint of sadness causes Clarke's half-hearted smile to fall short, but she ducks her head to avert her lover's prying stare and kiss her cheek, brushing back thick, dark curls.

 

Flustered color floods the brunette's complexion when Clarke fixes the button of Lexa's own pants, and she aches to kiss her again. But Lexa abstains long enough to seat the headstrong sky girl back onto the edge of the bed and lace up the straps of her boots.

 

Titus would throw an embolus if he were to know Heda lives to fulfill the chores of Wanheda's handmaidens. Of course as entertaining as the idea of watching her teacher give himself a stroke is, Lexa would much prefer to stamp any ideas of Titus from her mind completely and never ever bring him up when she's at Clarke's mercy.

 

Swinging her foot off Lexa's lap and onto the floor, Clarke gapes down at her again, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. A sense of deja vu floods the room, a perfect mirror of the events which led to the need to redress in the first place. Lexa still finds the expression frustratingly unreadable. 

 

Then Clarke's hands are at the back of Lexa's neck, and she's kissing her so hard the world swims out of focus until all Lexa knows is the feel of soft chapped lips and the feint taste of salt and the smell of rain and the sky. Clarke. All she knows and wants is Clarke.

 

"I- ," Clarke stubbornly stops herself short again, Lexa cannot fault her because they have both done their best to keep their statements simple. Voice thick, the blonde nods into her words as she strokes her best friend's mane of wild curls. "I'll be home as soon as I can, okay?"

 

And Lexa's brain shuts off. All that can ring around in her mind like the echo of a gong is the association of Clarke and home, whether or not Clarke means Polis itself or something else entirely, or if she'd just been overly relaxed with her word choice. Except Clarke is always cunningly precise and deliberate. Often to the point of recklessness that is both irritating and oddly arousing.

 

And Lexa regretfully cannot think of anything to say except, "Your people need you."

 

The sky people always need Clarke, always plead for her to render their self-destructive problems right, always quick to make her shoulder fault. 

 

Jok. 

 

Thankfully Clarke does not look at all dejected.

 

"For now," she vows with words which do not equate to their full potential. 

 

"For now," Lexa echoes around the growing lump in her throat. Refusing to let the heat prickle behind her eyes, she straightens her shoulders and forces a slight smile, grasping Clarke's forearm like a vice. "Safe travels, Ambassador."

 

"May we meet again, Heda." Clarke grins in spite of the redness in her eyes that is beginning to look a great deal like a pending allergy attack, and then she is gone, vanishing behind Heda's chamber door until Arkadia's citizens no longer require her diplomatic abilities.

 

Or until Wanheda's body grows too tired to deter the world's terrors, and passes off its spirit and duty to the next life because Clarke's diplomacy is more often built upon throwing herself into harms way.

 

And that is when Lexa lets a few more tears blur her vision to purge whatever residual bits of nausea, grief, and frustrated longing are intent on tormenting her through this peculiar sort of happiness. 

 

Death is not the end. It cannot be, because a life stripped of Clarke forever is a life the part of her spirit that is not just Heda, but also Lexa, would loathe to bear.

 

So that's why when the shots ring out from just down the hall and she hears the shouts of desperation, Lexa can do nothing but move her feet towards the commotion, stranding her guards in her wake.

 

Guards. 

 

There are none outside of Clarke's room, where they should watch vigilantly over the thirteenth clan's ambassador. 

 

A bloodthirsty desire to catapult them off the top of the tower consumes Lexa. Especially when she swaggers inside and discovers a bruised and beaten skai boy compromisingly chained to a chair in the corner. Just as she's juggling between snidely asking if this is a permanent bedroom fixture--his presence will absolutely pose an awkward ordeal at a later date--or if Clarke makes a habit of abusing her toys, another deafening clack splits the air and time slows down. 

 

The skai boy's oversized eyes bulge buggishly behind the swelling, and suddenly a dead weight plummets into her awaiting arms.

 

Not dead. Can't be dead. Not dead. 

 

Directly across the room a cloaked figure holds no remorse in his stoney features, not in the way he lamely balances his weapon, or looks like he's caught the brunt end of a foul scent. Clearly prwparwd to frame the Skaikru boy, her teacher has alas committed the most heinous of all crimes: high treason and utter betrayal.

 

Lexa's sight runs red, and murder courses through her veins. 

 

"Titus," she growls like a pauna on the verge of fatal attack. 

 

Heda's wrath illicits the shock expected of mortals in the presence of their gods. The gun slips to the floor, far away from him, with a dull clatter. His face runs white as snow, and he fumbles for Lexa's title.

 

Instead of lunging across the room to tear Titus limb from limb, Lexa's body selflessly creates a protective cocoon around her loved one as she cries out desperately for guards and a healer. Lexa knows her teacher will make no further advances to harm Clarke in the safety of her arms. Because he could hurt her like this, and if there's one thing Lexa is--or was--certain of: Titus does not ever want to physically harm Heda.

 

Clarke eyes are open wide and alert. 

 

Relief douses over Lexa like the buckets of ice water Anya once poured over her head to rouse her from slumber as a lazy sekken. Anya always was direct. And, oh, how she wishes Anya were here. 

 

Electric blue flickers around the room in surprise, and before the skai girl can utter a syllable, Lexa swings her beloved up into her arms like she is made of paper. With panicked strides, she deposits Clarke on the bed as gently as humanly possible, to inspect the damage. 

 

Red blood. 

 

Foreign. Unburdened by the destined woes of Heda like the natbliba in Lexa's own veins. 

 

Natbliba has brought Clarke suffering regardless. 

 

Clarke bleeds this awful red because she is Lexa's. 

 

The color is so pure and raw and strong. Just like Clarke. 

 

And Lexa will do anything in her power to save Clarke.

 

Clarke writhes at the slightest of pressure, and groans when Lexa dabs a discarded pillowcase at her wound to clear the bloodflow. Her breath grows quick and shaky as she mumbles through a tirade of surprised expletives like 'holy shit' and 'mother fucker almost shot you', and Lexa fears Clarke may succumb to shock before injury. So before she does something stupid like try to walk away insisting it's only a flesh wound, Lexa guides Clarke's face to look her in the eye with an oily, streaked hand.

 

"Clarke," she interrupts, and almost wonders if the reassurance is more for her own confidence. Her voice doesn't quite break, but as she strips away the top she had so carefully dressed Clarke in minutes ago to inspect the wound, there is an edge to it that does not even appear in the heat of battle. "I have you. I promise you. Your spirit isn't leaving anytime soon."

 

Clarke's wide-eyed expression hardly fades into collected resignation, seizing the chance to study Lexa's features and absorb the certainty freely given. Then she grunts half-heartedly, rolls her eyes with a wicked grin, and puts pressure down where Lexa tells her to. 

 

Titus has yet to move, which is a good thing because if he so much as flinches, Lexa is pretty sure she'll snap his neck. Having him at her back is exceedingling uncomfortable, however. Her trust in him has shattered completely. So she is surprised when she reels and tells him she should slay him where he stands because to attack Clarke is to attack Lexa; he sinks to his knees and bows his head, muffling his protests of what he found to be the best course of action. His mouth drips with lies, and Lexa will hear no more.

 

"You know there's this whole oath about about how you're not supposed to belittle patients with empty promises?" Clarke beckons her attention back to the matter at hand. She laughs--actually laughs, and it's terrifying--against the pressure Lexa exerts on her body. "Especially when they might die. Gunshot victims do die sometimes, you know?"

 

Lexa presses nausea down with anger and snaps, "You are not dying!"

 

Clarke scoffs, "If you say so."

 

"I do say so." Lexa loses the clipped edge to her tone when she sees the muddled fear, amusement, and tired affection in Clarke's gaze. "Your spirit is far too meddlesome to retire. You would split hairs in death."

 

"There's a hole in my side. Weird. My body caught a bullet, and I feel it. But I also don't?" Clarke snorts, hands atop her own wound. By now it is evident she has caught the same second wind of a wounded gona fighting for their life. "Pretty glad it's not you though, considering you're the one that always talks about your death."

 

The cloth in Lexa's hands has nearly soiled all the way through and it scares her. She wants to stop the bleeding--needs to stop the bleeding--and she does not have the steady hands of a healer to stitch Clarke's wound back together. Nor the supplies, beyond what cloths are within reach for packing. At this rate she's not even sure if that will work.

 

If Lexa were still a foolish sekken, she'd have stuck her blade over a flame and pressed the red metal to the wound in an instant. But after Anya had tossed her into the mud and she'd spent a good effort wobbling her way to her knees for making a similar effort, she'd quickly been briefed on the woes of internal bleeding and infection. 

 

Cauterization is an absolute last resort. 

 

Clarke deserves better effort than a last resort.

 

"Because my body is expendable," Lexa gasps, suddenly despising what Clarke must feel everytime there's a morbid shift in conversation topic.

 

"You're about as expendable as both of my kidneys," Clarke argues hotly. Her jaw sets with strain. "I know right now that's probably not the best example because blood loss is really fucking hard on the renal system, but it goes without saying: you are one-of-a-kind, and I need you. I want you . . . ."

 

Forever goes unspoken, but Lexa hears it all the same. 

 

"I would choose you first in every life," Lexa says.

 

Clarke smiles so wide her cheeks must hurt. So sadly. So tiredly.

 

The guards break ground the second Titus starts ranting.

 

"See, Heda," he screeches as Lexa orders his arrest and release of the skai boy. "This is why I chose to take the power of Wanheda for you. She's dangerous. A liability to you. She seeks to place her own needs above those of your people--!"

 

"Enough!" Lexa roars in Trigedasleng, turning to the guards she should pound into dust for absence. "Take him away!"

 

She will see to Titus' due punishment as soon as circumstance allows her a respite of fret. Perhaps she'll even have long enough a break to strangle him with her bare hands. In spite of herself, Lexa relishes the idea.

 

The skai boy mumbles something irritable and dejected as the chains slip away, and Clarke sniggers. The sounds come out more like a groan. 

 

Lexa barely registers anything besides the pounding in her ears and the hands prying her own away from Clarke's body. She hisses in protest, merely to be greeted by the tower healer's firm reprimand. No one dares to demand anything of Heda, yet Heda would be a fool to disregard the help she herself summoned in her beloved's--potentially--most desperate hour. Lexa is hesistant to relinquish control, however, and only at Clarke's drowsy reassurance does she reluctantly give way for a more experienced set of hands.

 

The fisa drops her supply bag at the foot of the bed,  shooing Lexa from her working space. She asks direct, terse questions about her patient's condition, and nothing further. Healer Loma has seen the wounds inflicted by the cursed maunon's fayogon, and knows time is of the essence. So she is quick to go about padding, compressing, and creating a tourniquet. 

 

Since Lexa refuses to go a moment without physical contact, the healer allows her to assist in adjusting Clarke's body. 

 

Abrupt movement proves difficult. 

 

Clarke whimpers, digging her teeth into her bottom lip to stave off the tears threatening to fall. Her breath is sharp and ragged against Lexa's face--only inches from her own. Sweat beads the bangs Heda pushes away, and fear flashes in her eyes.

 

 Lexa has never seen Clarke so vulnerable and in so much pain, and she prays she never has to again. 

 

"Tell me what I need to do," Lexa demands, or maybe she pleads. Her voice feels hollow, like it has echoed up from the canyons of her soul. "Tell me what to do."

 

"Talk to me," Clarke croaks, weakly squeezing Lexa's numb, bruising hand with a cool, clammy palm. Dark circles rim her eyes and her complexion has lost an astounding amount of color. She tries to grin again. "Tell me . . . the bullet went all the way through. Or--I don't know--how pretty I am."

 

Lexa tells her truth.

 

Clarke is only corrected on the former. 

 

She swears again, but with less vigor. Her brows only sink in annoyance. She wishes aloud for the bullet to be lodged anywhere but her rear because she'll never hear the end of it from Raven.  Apparently the location is a possibility because "bullets bounce."

 

Suddenly Clarke's brows shoot up in realization and she gasps, "Octavia."

 

"What?" Lexa whispers.

 

"Octavia," Clarke reiterates, squeezing her eyes shut to focus. "She's outside . . . by the gate. She's waiting for me. We were supposed to go back to Arkadia together . . . . I don't know if she's still there. She might have left, but I need-."

 

"You need to let Loma fix you, Clarke," Lexa growls. 

 

Clarke stubbornly shakes her head in protest. The motion is weak, only a matter of dying residual pride. "My people-."

 

"Can wait," the skai boy decides. His jaw sets firmly, nodding briskly in a silent form of communication that resembles something along the lines of comfort. But the expression is stiff and awkward, like he's fighting off whatever surly monster controls his tongue. 

 

Appreciation flickers guiltily through Clarke's gaze.

 

Especially when Lexa swallows around the lump in her throat, and rushes a guard away to fetch Oktevia kom Skaikru. Lexa's expression immediately softens against the barbed wires of her voice. "Just this once."

 

Tears prick around the corners of Clarke's startling blue eyes. "Pike is going to get them all killed . . . and it will be my fault. I can't- I can't let them hurt you, Lexa. No matter what, promise me you'll be careful and happy. The Coalition will-."

 

The words die in her throat on the edge of a scream, and Lexa's heart shatters into more pieces than there are stars in the sky. She did not want to hear Clarke's final goodbyes, but with the cold shudder in her spine, Lexa knows she wants to witness this torture even less.

 

Loma looms over Clarke with a pair of long, thin metal instruments, prodding at the wound. She barks at Lexa and the skai boy to render Clarke still while she stitches away at internal damage. As much as some spoiled part of Lexa's mind recoils at being spoken to like a lazy goufa, she obeys without hesitation and the skai boy follows suit--without need for translation--anchoring himself across Clarke's legs. 

 

When Loma dives back into the wound with her utensils, Heda grounds Wanheda back against the stained furs with forearms on shoulders and a face treasure by shaking hands. Guttural cries ring through the halls of the Tower, likely startling sleeping entry on the bottommost floor. Green eyes school the lively, terrified blue into staring away from the healer's work. 

 

Until the azure fire dies, and Clarke's gaze rolls back in unconsciousness.

 

Paralyzed by the sudden limp weight of her lover's body, Lexa's heart jumps into her throat. She wants to shake Clarke awake, plead with her to return to the land of the living. Only the muscles in her jaw seem to react as they slacken into gaping shock.

 

Then the Healer guides Heda's long fingers into the crook of Wanheda's neck. A breath held far too long slips away from Lexa's lips because a pulse thrums  away in a rapid, thready fashion beneath cooled, dampened skin. It is too fast and too unsteady to be unconcerned about, but it is strong and real and Clarke's chest rises and fall with each quickened breath. 

 

And it is enough for Lexa to find faith in the healer's vow to vigilantly take watch and make sure Clarke survives the night. 

 

Lexa wants more for Clarke than survival.

 

Except Clarke should be the first to know.

 

So with gentle fingers, Lexa strokes away soft golden curls and whispers for only her sleeping beloved, "Survive. Please, that's all I ask."

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry, Clarke. This was rough because my beautiful bisexual baby has been through so much. My heart will always route for #ClarkeGriffinsHappiness2016, and I'll never forgive myself for hurting her.
> 
> Also, I am literally on my phone posting this shit so I apologize for typos. I'll get to those when I can. 
> 
> In the meantime feel free to yell at me on tumblr: personalityplop  
> Yeah, it's a personality blog, what of it? At this rate, it's probably become all purpose where I lurk around my mutuals and sometimes make funny comments into the void that is the internet.
> 
> Anyways I think I've given myself carpal tunnel--get your minds out of the gutter--and it's late, so I'm gonna crash. I hoped you enjoyed the start of this thing. Let me know yeah?


End file.
